The Reichenbach Flight
by TheSoulGiver
Summary: When GERTI is flying over London, Arthur, Douglas, and Martin notice a strange man on a rooftop...who looks as though he's going to jump. Basically, a ridiculous and extremely impossible alternate outcome of the Reichenbach Fall. It had to be written.
1. Chapter 1

Arthur: We nearly back yet, chaps?

Martin: Yes, Arthur; we're just flying over London now.

A: Oh, brilliant, really? Oh yeah, look, there's a bus, and a dog –

Douglas: Yes, how else would we be able to tell it was London if it weren't for the _bus_ and the _dog_?

A: - and a tall building, and oh, YELLOW CAR! And there's a bicycle, and ooh, look, _another _tall building! 'Cept this one's got a man on it who looks like he's going to jump.

M: What? Arthur, that's not funny.

D: No, Martin, Arthur's right…_Those_are words I never thought I'd hear myself say. But anyway, look, there! Martin, circle in closer, we need a better look.

M: '_Circle in closer'? _Douglas, are you absolutely mad?

D: Martin, just do it.

M: _*sighs heavily*_

A: Hey, Skip…is that a _dead body_on the roof next to that man?

D: No, Arthur, it's just a dummy, lying in a pool of _fake_blood, and holding a gun.

A: Oh good.

M: _Douglas._

D: Sorry.

M: Anyway, are you done _sightseeing_now? I rather think it's time we quit flying in circles and get to the airfield before Carolyn calls and starts interrogating us as to our whereabouts.

D: Martin, we can't just fly away! I'm fairly certain that man is going to jump.

M: Of course we can just fly away! We're in an aeroplane! And what, you were planning on just sitting here and watching?

A: Maybe he just likes standing on tall buildings while making phone calls. You probably get better reception up there…

D: Of _course_I'm not going to just sit here and watch, Martin.

M: Good, so we can –

D: We're going to save him.

M: …Douglas, I really do hope you _are_joking this time.

D: Why in the world would I be joking about saving a man's life? So, let's see…GERTI's a small jet, so if we descend at an angle we should be able to easily swoop down between the buildings and catch him on the tip of the wing before he plummets to the ground. Now, the tricky bit will be the timing –

A: Brilliant!

M: What? No, Arthur, it is _not_brilliant! The polar bears were bad enough, but this is just suicide!

D: No, what that man is doing is suicide.

M: Well, all the same…no, wait! If he's committing suicide, then he obviously doesn't want to be rescued in the first place!

D: Maybe I should clarify. The man _is_ going to jump off the roof, but it's _not_suicide.

A: Whoa! This is just like a murder mystery! And Douglas is like…Sherlock Holmes! And that means that you can be Watson, Skip!

M: No, no, _I'm_Sherlock Holmes!

A: Oh, so Douglas is Watson?

D: Absolutely not.

A: Well, _somebody_ has to be Watson…Can _I_be Watson?

M: Sure, fine, Arthur, whatever. But Douglas, what do you mean, it's not suicide?

D: Just look at him. He obviously doesn't have suicidal intentions. It's the dead man holding the gun who already shot himself. The jumping man just wants to live. He's making his final phone call now, see?

A: Alright, Douglas is _definitely_Sherlock Holmes.

D: …Martin? Aren't you going to angrily deny that statement? Are you quite alright?

M: Yes, it's just…Can we stop circling? I'm feeling a bit…a bit…

_*Indistinct noise*_

A: Skipper!

D: Arthur, check him and make sure he's alright, I have to take control. Try not to kill him while you're at it.

A: He's just collapsed…I think he passed out.

D: I'm sure he'll be perfectly fine til we reach the airfield as long as you don't touch him. What do you think it could have been? He _does_have that 'abnormality of the inner ear' and blacks out when he gets…dizzy…

A: Oh Douglas…You wouldn't let him stop circling…

D: Yes, Arthur, that'll do.

A: Douglas, you _clot!_

D: Arthur, weren't you going to help me save a man's life?

A: Oh yeah! What can I do to help?

D: You can sit down in that chair and hang on for dear life. Without touching _any_buttons or levers. Got it?

A: Right-o!

Douglas: Good. Commencing dive in approximately twenty seconds.

A: Douglas?

D: Yes?

A: This is BRILLIANT!

D: Indeed it is, my dear fellow. GERONIMOOOOO!


	2. Chapter 2

The dark-haired man stalked across the chalky grey pavement, tetchily adjusting his scarf and straightening his long coat around his wiry frame. The livid glint in his eye was thrown into momentary darkness as he passed under the drooping wing of the small aeroplane, and his eyes flickered upward for just enough time to observe how the metal was beginning to corrode in certain especially vital places before returning his attention to his mission.

He strode up to the door of the jet and pounded forcefully on it with his fist, feeling the feeble metal give a little under the strength of his touch, before simply grabbing the handle and yanking the door open. He was never known to be a very patient man, after all.

The man swung himself up into the aeroplane, sweeping through a door into what he immediately identified as the galley. He began making his way to the flight deck when a man suddenly barreled out, stopping dead when he saw the man standing in the galley.

"_No…!"_he cried dramatically, mouth falling open as he gaped at their guest.

The tall man raised an eyebrow, glancing at the man with the name tag reading "Arthur." "Arthur" was obviously the steward, based on his uniform, but lives with his mother, a fact which is made obvious by the creases left over from recent ironing. Considering the wrinkles on the rest of his uniform, Arthur certainly wouldn't have gone to the trouble to iron then allow wrinkles to appear later, so mother it is.

"I demand to speak to the captain of this plane," he said curtly, sweeping his eyes past the steward and toward the door of the flight deck.

The steward didn't take the blatant hint and move, however. In fact, it seemed as though he had barely heard the tall man speaking at all. He continued to stand directly in the path of the flight deck door, gaping openly at the mysterious visitor for far longer than seemed necessary, before suddenly hollering at the top of his lungs.

"DOUGLAS!"

A tall man with graying hair wearing a pilot's uniform emerged from the flight deck, a smug, self-satisfied smile spreading across his face when he noticed their visitor. The dark-haired man distrusted him already. Before the pilot had a chance to speak, the visitor interjected.

"You're not the captain."

The pilot, Douglas, seemed slightly thrown off by this statement, but didn't reply. The visitor continued speaking, casting his eyes up and down the sturdy form of the pilot.

"You carry yourself like a captain, but your epaulettes suggest the position of first officer. You don't like this, obviously, but you do your best to appear unbothered by it. This, paired with your age, suggests a former captain. But still not the captain of this jet, whom I still insist on speaking to."

Douglas raised an eyebrow, noticeably impressed.

"Captain Crieff is not in any, er, medical state to speak at the moment, so I will be representing this jet on his behalf." Douglas glanced towards the door of the flight deck, which had been left slightly ajar.

"So _you _were the one flying this jet?"

"Yes, I took control upon Captain Crieff's…injury. Speaking of Captain Crieff, I should probably call a medic for him…"

"No."

Douglas stared at the stranger, obviously offended.

"What do you mean, 'no'?"

"I mean that nobody is entering or leaving this jet until I find out a few things. First, I need your phone."

"My…_phone_,"Douglas sneered.

"Yes, your _phone._I need it. Now."

"What for?"

"I need to make a few calls. Four, in fact. Two of them are extremely urgent and can't wait."

Arthur leaned forward and hissed to Douglas.

"Douglas, he looks rather keen…Maybe you should give him your phone?"

"Don't be an idiot, Arthur. Oh, what am I saying? Anyway, just stop talking. I know what I'm doing, and I am not giving him _my phone_."

A fire flashed in the dark stranger's silver eyes. He reached out a pale, slender hand, palm facing upwards expectantly in front of Douglas.

"Your, phone, please. _I. Need. It."_

"No."

Douglas was a stubborn man as well, and was not about to let this strange man push him around. Especially when he had just saved his life, for god's sake. Arthur glanced tentatively between Douglas and the stranger, realising that for once, Douglas had a worthy rival for his wit.

"Let's get a few facts cleared up, then maybe I'll let you use my phone. How's that?" Douglas suggested lightly, quite enjoying the way the stranger's jaw clenched and he looked as though he were trying to set Douglas on fire with the heat of his glare.

The dark-haired man still didn't reply, but simply withdrew his hand and shoved it back into his pocket with a graceful and dignified flourish. Douglas's grin widened.

"Very good. Now, first of all, just to clear up a little disagreement between myself and my colleague - that wasn't a suicide mission on your part, was it? You didn't want to die."

The stranger stared at Douglas with only partially concealed shocked silence. This man was clever, much more clever than he would have guessed. But he still didn't understand; he had no idea of the magnitude of the situation.

"I wanted to jump," he said finally. "I needed to end my life."

"But it wasn't suicide. Good, good."

The pilot, Douglas, reminded the stranger uneasily of his brother. Certainly not as cunning and powerful as the older sibling, no, but enough so to trigger immediate distrust. He bit his tongue, holding back his temper. He couldn't take much more of this.

Arthur beamed and clapped his hands wildly.

"Wow, Douglas, you _were_ right! I knew it! You are _definitely_ Sherlock Holmes."

The stranger turned his anger and confusion upon the giddy steward.

"Of course he's not _Sherlock Holmes_. That's _me_."

Unfortunately, instead of shutting him up, this only seemed to fuel Arthur's excitement.

"Whoa! You're Sherlock Holmes? _The_ Sherlock Holmes? I knew I recognised you from somewhere! But you also looked a bit like Skipper in person so that threw me off and I wasn't sure. But _wow_! Sherlock Holmes…!"

"Do please _shut up_," Sherlock Holmes spat at the adoring steward, who promptly closed his rather large mouth, but continuing to gape in awed silence at their famed visitor.

Sherlock longed to wipe that smirk off of Douglas's face; he seemed even more full of himself now that he's realised he'd "rescued" Sherlock Holmes.

"Now, _I_ have some questions for_ you_," Sherlock snarled, taking two large steps forward until he and Douglas were face to face. "What the _hell_ did you think you were doing? I didn't want to be rescued; if I had wanted that, I could have had it, easily!"

Sherlock had thrown his hands up in the air and was now pacing back and forth in the tight space of the galley.

"And how in the _world_ did you even manage to pull this off? This defies all of the laws of physics; there is no way that should have worked. It is physically impossible for a man to hang onto the wing of an aeroplane while in flight, yet I survived. _How. Did. You. Do. It._"

"He's magic," Arthur declared from his corner, shaking his head in a solemn manner. "I've said it for a long time, but _this_ is ultimate proof. The first officer of MJN, Douglas Richardson, is_ magic_."

"Of course it's not _magic_," Sherlock sneered. "Oh, why do I even bother? Alright, Mr. Richardson, I've answered your bloody questions, and by this point I frankly don't care how you did it, I just need to use your phone. _Please_."

Sherlock seemed to throw the final word in as an afterthought, reaching out his right hand towards Douglas's phone.

"Ah-ah, not so fast," Douglas cried, pulling the hand that held the cell phone back away from the detective. Sherlock looked as though he was about to punch him.

"There's just one more thing I want to clear up first," Douglas continued, tossing his phone scrupulously from hand to hand. "Why did you jump?"

The two men stood, staring at each other, the challenge between their gazes quite clear. The phone that fell between them that the detective so desperately needed added to the sense of tension, and even Arthur could feel the conflict in the air, and for once, kept quiet.

Finally, Sherlock spoke.

"Haven't you been reading the papers? I'm a fraud. I lied to everyone about my detective skills. I jumped out of shame."

"First of all, no, we haven't been reading the papers lately, because Carolyn's been forcing us to fly this piece of scrap metal halfway around the world and back this whole week. And secondly, that's not the truth, Mr. Holmes. As a rather skilled liar myself, I can tell when people aren't telling the truth, and you're keeping something from us. And I can tell how badly you need this phone, and I know how to turn people's desires to my advantage and get something out of it. And all I really want right now is the truth.

Sherlock stared at the first officer, his face smooth and emotionless. Despite the silence, Douglas could practically hear the gears turning in the detective's head. He kept his smirk internal this time; Douglas was done trying to provoke a reaction from this man.

"To keep my friends alive," Sherlock finally replied, not meeting Douglas's eye. When Douglas didn't reply, Sherlock took the hint to elaborate.

"If I didn't jump, the only three people in this world who I care about would be shot. And that's why I need to make those phone calls, to make sure they're alive. Because I don't know if the snipers needed to see my bloody body on the pavement, but if they did, then they could be gone. I need to know."

There were a few moments of shocked silence. It was finally broken, as shocked silences on GERTI usually were, by Arthur.

"D'you want a hug?"

"No, I don't want a _hug_."

"Are you sure, Mr. Holmes? Arthur here gives rather good hugs," Douglas asked jokingly, before allowing the seriousness to set back into his face as he held out his cell phone. "Here you go. I…hope they're alright."

Sherlock took a deep breath as he accepted the phone, staring with some trepidation at the lit up buttons.

"Me, too."


	3. Chapter 3

A blank stretch of pavement openly confronted a thoroughly befuddled John Watson.

It should all be there: the blood, the crumpled body, the frantic paramedics, but it was all absent. Only the sort of dumbstruck silence remained, punctuated only by occasional shocked whispers between a few of the witnesses.

This wasn't sufficient proof to convince John Watson that it all just actually happened. He remembered every moment in perfect detail right up to the fall, every word of that final phone call was still echoing in his head, but John was quite prepared to believe that he had fallen unconscious and the following events were simply inventions of his distressed and war-scarred brain.

I mean, what idiot would seriously believe that the master detective Sherlock Holmes was rescued from certain death by a passing aeroplane?

John pinched himself rather hard on the forearm, and he decided that it quite hurt. At reaching this conclusion, John chose to assume for the moment that he was, indeed, awake.

He attempted to approach the issue logically, as Sherlock would have done. First off, it was utterly impossible. There was no way that an _aeroplane_ swooped down into London and actually caught a man on the tip of its wing as he plummeted from the roof of a relatively short building.

But John could have sworn he saw a lanky figure clinging for dear life to the closest wing of the jet as it ascended from among the compact buildings, dark trench coat and scarf flapping behind him almost comically.

John thought he may have imagined this part (hell, he thought he was imagining the whole bloody affair), but he could have sworn he saw the figure's mouth open widely in a call that was completely lost on the rush of wind, but strangely resembled Sherlock's frequent cries of "JAAAAWWWWWN!"

Maybe if I just stand here for a while, the universe will sort itself back out again and start making some sense, John thought, shutting his eyes and shaking his head. Of course, that philosophy never served him very well – not on the battlefields, and especially not in his lifestyle with Sherlock. But this time, in the absence of gunfire and a mad detective, the doctor didn't seem to have much choice.

John was vaguely aware of his phone buzzing in his pocket, but didn't move to answer it. He simply squeezed his eyes shut more tightly, stubbornly clenching his jaw and fists. He didn't care that he was still standing on the sidewalk and people may be staring. He wasn't opening his eyes until…well, he wasn't exactly sure what he was waiting for. But he had just seen his best friend fly away clinging to the wing of an aeroplane, and John had no idea how to proceed with normal life after that experience.

His phone soon stopped buzzing, only to resume moments later, somehow managing to sound more urgent than before. John sighed through clenched teeth.

The third time it started to ring, John snatched his phone out of his pocket, finally blinking open his eyes. The world looked much the same as it had before, to John's dismay, save for a few curious glances of passerby.

John glanced at the lit up screen of his phone, only taking time to note the unfamiliar number before irritatedly pressing the Answer button and bringing it to his ear.

Before he could say anything, a low, familiar voice emerged from the phone.

"John?"

John blinked in surprise.

"Yes, what…Sherlock?"

"Oh, John, thank god…John, are you still outside St. Bart's?"

"What? Yes, Sherlock, but why – "

"John, don't move, alright? I'll call you back in a moment."

"Sherlock!"

But the detective had already hung up.

John barely had time to have a proper open-mouthed gape at his phone before it was buzzing again, the same number appearing on the screen. John answered the call promptly.

"Honestly, Sherlock, what the bloody hell – "

"John, Mycroft is sending a car," the detective interrupted. "When it pulls up, just get in. Don't speak to anyone else. I'll see you in approximately thirty-seven minutes."

"Sherlock Holmes!"

But once again, Sherlock had already ended the call.

John's open-mouthed gape was interrupted this time by the arrival of a large, shiny black car. These cars of Mycroft never fail to seem to John both familiar and utterly mysterious at the same time.

With a final, exasperated shake of his head, John wrenched the door open and clambered into the backseat, staring blankly out the window as he was transported to an unknown destination following the rescuing of his flat mate by a _passing aeroplane_.

**Author's Note: Hello lovelies:) I apologise profusely for my lack of updates, I often simply forget to write another chapter. I honestly have no idea where I'm planning on taking this story, so any suggestions or ideas on what you would like to see would be very much appreciated. Otherwise, I'll just wing it, and we'll see what happens. I love you all :D**


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock paced frantically back and forth outside the small aeroplane, hands clenched tightly together behind his back. It had already been forty minutes since he ended the call with John, and the journey only should have taken about thirty-seven. Three minutes late. Three long, unexplained minutes. Anything could happen in three minutes.

What if the vehicle Mycroft sent had crashed?

What if Moriarty's men weren't content with seeing him fall, but needed to have someone dead in the deal as well?

What if…

Douglas was leaning against the metal side of GERTI with his arms crossed, lazily regarding the agitated and pacing detective.

"Would you mind _not _pacing?" Douglas drawled, his dark eyes following the detective's path across the grey pavement and back. "It's making me anxious. It's also becoming rather dull, if you don't mind me saying."

Sherlock didn't answer, but continued his feverish pacing, putting all of his concentration into the mental stopwatch inside his head. His phone had been left behind on the rooftop of the hospital, and he would sooner take another plunge off of a building before he asked this egotistical pilot for the time. John's broken face before Sherlock ended the rooftop phone call flashed in the detective's mind. Well, maybe _not_ another fall…

Douglas hated being ignored, and this strange man (who gives a damn if he's supposed to be some famous detective?) was very quickly getting on his nerves. Douglas was determined not to let it show, however. He continued speaking in an uninterested voice.

"Are you sure we can't call a doctor?" he asked, glancing halfheartedly at the door of the plane. "I mean, Martin hasn't woken up yet, and it's been nearly forty-five minutes, and I'm no doctor, but that seems _very_ unsafe to me..."

"Isn't that other chap in there with him?" Sherlock asked irritably, clenching his teeth. Forty two and a half minutes.

"Well, yes, Arthur is in there with him, but that's part of why I'm concerned," Douglas replied.

"When I was in there ten minutes ago, his pulse and temperature were normal, and he was still breathing. Isn't that enough?" Sherlock snapped.

When Douglas opened his mouth to respond, Sherlock waved his hand impatiently.

"My friend is a doctor, and he should be here any moment. He should have been here nearly seven minutes ago…" Sherlock glanced anxiously towards the entrance of the airfield.

"I'm sure he's fine. Rush hour London traffic, you know…" Somehow, Douglas managed to turn even this seemingly reassuring phrase into something pompous and sarcastic.

Sherlock continued to ignore him, replaying the events of the last hour in his head. He had called John immediately after acquiring a cell phone, nearly collapsing with relief when he heard John's startled and utterly baffled voice. He had wanted nothing more than to keep talking to John, offer apologies and explanations, because the detective knew that John was going to be properly infuriated with him once he arrived at the air field.

However, Sherlock knew he had to call Mycroft – "brother dearest" would definitely like to know what happened on the rooftop, and Sherlock definitely wanted John to get a ride there safely - so they had an unspoken deal. Sherlock filled Mycroft in on what he knew, and Mycroft sent a car to take John to Fitton.

Sherlock also managed to get Mycroft to send someone to stop by Baker Street to check on Mrs. Hudson and by Scotland Yard for Lestrade – he didn't have their numbers memorized, he deleted them from his "hard drive" once he got a phone and had no need for them anymore. But in the back of his brain he always kept Mycroft and John's numbers, just in case.

Sherlock squinted at the distant edge of the airfield. Was it…? Yes, it was a car, large and black, consistent with those that Mycroft usually sent.

John was here.

"Look's like you're friend's finally arrived," Douglas began to say, but Sherlock was already sprinting across the pavement at the vehicle. The car stopped a few feet away from where Sherlock was running, and Sherlock swerved to avoid crashing into the front of it. With the tinted windows, Sherlock couldn't see inside the car (it could have been an enemy sniper, for all he knew), but at that moment the only thing on his mind was seeing John safe.

The back door of the car opened slowly, and a familiar "Bloody hell, Sherlock!" emerged from within. Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief, grabbing the door and wrenching it the rest of the way open, causing John Watson to nearly tumble down onto the pavement. Sherlock managed to catch his arm, and pulled him into a tight embrace.

John squeezed him back, equally relieved. He had opened the door of the car with all intent of being properly furious at Sherlock, but with that simple gesture, John's anger had diminished to slight agitation and bafflement.

"You have a bloody death wish or something? I mean, first the building, then dashing off in front of the car…" John's voice constricted a little near the end, and he cleared his throat slightly, resting his chin on Sherlock's shoulder as he tightened his arms around his back.

When they broke apart, "Anthea" poked her head out of the open door to the backseat.

"Mr. Holmes will be arriving shortly," she said, with a sort of self-satisfied smirk as she disappeared back into the car, and it drove off, leaving them alone in the middle of the giant airfield lot.

"Shortly" was right; Sherlock and John barely had time to blink at each other when they heard the unmistakable whir of a helicopter from above.

The large, white helicopter came into view a few moments later, and it slowly lowered into the large airfield lot. Mycroft Holmes stepped out, black umbrella suitably in hand despite the clear skies.

"Rather conspicuous form of transportation, isn't it, Mycroft?" Sherlock called over to him as the elder Holmes approached the two men.

"I was about to ask you the same thing, Sherlock," Mycroft replied smoothly, before turning to John.

"And John, how are you?"

"Er, good, thanks?" John said, glancing uneasily at Mycroft.

"Hello, you must be John, then" drawled a voice from behind them. Douglas had approached them while they were distracted by Mycroft's arrival.

"Yes, that's me," John replied, turning and shaking hands with the tall pilot.

"I'm first officer Douglas Richardson, and it has come to my understanding that you are a doctor?"

"Yes, I am. Um, how exactly did you know that, if you don't mind…?"

"Sherlock informed me he had a friend coming who was a doctor, and you seemed the medical type." Douglas nodded at Mycroft. "_You_ strike me as more of a politician."

Mycroft smiled.

"I occupy a minor position in the British government, in fact."

"Ah, I was correct, once again," Douglas said, more to himself than to the others, before addressing John again. "Well, our captain has been unconscious for some time, and your _friend_ here refused to let us call a physician. Would you mind taking a look at him?"

"Er, no, not at all," said John. "Where is he?"

Douglas led John back across the lot to GERTI, with Sherlock and Mycroft trailing a few feet behind, conversing tensely with each other in hushed tones.

"He's waking up!" they could hear Arthur hollering from inside the jet as they approached.

The four of them climbed into the plane and followed the sounds of Arthur's yells to the flight deck, where small, curly-haired Martin Crieff was lying on the floor with Arthur's jacket wadded up as a pillow, groaning and shifting slightly with his eyes still closed.

"See? I told you he'd be fine," Sherlock said to Douglas as John kneeled down beside the captain and began taking his pulse.

Somehow, Arthur was still cheerily chatting away.

"…and your voice reminds me of someone, but I just can't place it!" he was saying to Sherlock. "It's a unique sort of voice…"

Martin tried to sit up, rubbing his head groggily.

"Wha' happened?"

Arthur whirled around to look delightedly at Martin, as John tried to get the captain to lie back down.

"Whoa, Skip, that sounded just like him! Do it again!"

"Arthur, what're you going on about? Do what?"

"Yes, that was perfect! Brilliant! You should be one of those guys who does impressions of people! Like my dalek impression: 'EEEEX-TEEEER-MIIIIN-AAAAATE -'"

"Yes, Arthur, that'll do," Douglas interrupted him. "And maybe, this is a bit of a stretch, I know, but _maybe,_ Martin and Sherlock just happen to have similar voices."

Arthur scratched his head as he considered this for a moment.

"That's a good idea, Douglas, but…Nah, I think Skip's just really, really good at doing impressions."

"…Of course he is. You know, they even look a tad alike," said Douglas, looking back and forth from Sherlock to Martin. "I mean, looking past the obvious differences, such as height and hair colour and general attractiveness. They have a similar face shape. I think it's the cheekbones. Or, Arthur, do you think Martin's also just really good at making himself look like other people?"

"Oh! I never thought of that," cried Arthur. "Um…No, you know what? I think they just look a little bit alike. I think if Martin could make himself look like other people, we'd notice. He'd look a bit more like…Tom Cruise, maybe."

"Hey!" Martin cried from where he was sitting on the floor, his face reddening, before he directed his attention back to what John was telling him.

"…You don't have a concussion, nor do there seem to be any lasting effects, so you should be fine. Let me know if you still feel off after another twenty minutes," John said to Martin, who nodded, and accepted John's helping hand to pull himself into a standing position.

Douglas finally addressed Martin.

"Hello, Captain, how are you feeling?"

"Er…fine, thanks?" Martin replied, staring up at all of the unfamiliar faces. "Um…who exactly are these people?" His eyes landed on Sherlock and he gawked for a moment before turning accusingly to Douglas.

"That's the man from the building! The man in the dark coat! He was going to jump, and then…and then…Oh my god. You did it."

Douglas smirked pompously.

"How did you - _Why_ would you – oh, forget it. I don't even want to know." Martin shook his head exasperatedly. "I'm just going to keep out of it, so when Carolyn finds out and has a fit, I can just say I had nothing to do with it, and know nothing about it."

"It was brilliant, Skip!" Arthur cried. "You should have been there for it. Well, technically, you _were_ there, but you were unconscious, so you didn't get to see any of it. But you kind of did get to be there for it, because you _were_ physically there, in person, while it was happening - "

Arthur continued jabbering away while Douglas turned to Mycroft.

"Hello, I don't think we've been properly introduced. First officer Douglas Richardson."

"Mycroft Holmes," Mycroft replied with a nearly identical drawl, shaking Douglas's outstretched hand.

"_Enchante._"

"Oh, I assure you, the pleasure is mine."

"Oh _god_," Sherlock groaned, grimacing as he watched Douglas and Mycroft shaking hands.

"What is it?" John asked, trying to follow Sherlock's gaze.

"Two of the people I loathe the most, and they've become _acquaintances_ already."

John shrugged.

"Well, they're very alike, I suppose. Maybe this'll help keep Mycroft out of your hair if he's got someone else to bother for once."

"Maybe," replied Sherlock sarcastically, and John sighed. Well, he had tried.

"The other pilot doesn't seem so bad," John said, inclining his head towards where Martin was now chatting with a still very overexcited Arthur.

"He's boring."

"Well, he's nice."

"He's dull," Sherlock insisted. "He's a mediocre pilot, at best, and doesn't even get paid to be the captain. He lives in a shared house and works another job on the side, something to do with delivery. He's just another one of those boring, ordinary people trying to 'make their dreams come true,' even though they obviously lack the necessary skills to do so. _Dull._" The finality in his voice made John decide it wasn't even a subject worth pursuing.

"Just…try to be civil, alright? Don't be rude to these people. They don't deserve it, not even that tall one who's friends with Mycroft."

"…I'll try."

"No, you _will_."

The stubbornness in his voice was so purely _John_, that Sherlock couldn't help chuckling.

"What?" John asked, perplexed. "What are you laughing at? What did I do?"

Oh, John. Slow, clueless, indignant John. Sherlock was undeniably glad he had managed to reunite with his flat-mate, regardless of what ridiculous, impossible methods brought him there.

This thought only made Sherlock laugh harder, and after a moment of puzzled and annoyed silence, John's face broke into a wide grin and he started laughing, too. John had to admit, he was glad he was back with Sherlock, too.


End file.
